


Tale as Old as Time

by Kerfluffle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dirty Dancing, M/M, Washington Capitals, don't look at my fucking boner when we fight, general stupidity, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerfluffle/pseuds/Kerfluffle
Summary: Andre breaks his hand. Tom provides an assist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> February 2017 season fic. Pretty much follows IRL events but I’m also not sweating details for this stupid thing. Canonical minor injury = one-way ticket to trope city.
> 
> I always have a dumb ‘do I call them by their nicknames or regular first names or last names or a combination of the three’ debate in my head. This time I went with first names. It looks kind of weird but it is what it is.

The team leadership group plays rock-paper-scissors to determine who has to break the bad news. Tom wishes this were the first time he’s watched Alex get disqualified for attempting to bring back “fire” like it’s 2006. After some heated debate and accusations of cheating, Nick emerges from the huddle resigned to the task at hand, his mouth pinched in a typically stoic line.

Tom is just glad he isn’t in the room when Nick actually tells Andre that he can’t get his cast wet. Tom can picture the look of wide-eyed betrayal well enough in his mind, thanks. While the rest of the team gets to jet off to various tropical destinations, Andre has to stay nearby. For his own good.

It’s not like Andre is a child -- Tom only has a year on him for fuck’s sake -- but being the youngest on the team, _again_ , combined with his youthful personality and baby face means that everyone tends to fuss over his well being more than they should.

“Check up on him, okay?” says Nick, not actually a question, as he pats Tom on the shoulder.

Tom narrows his eyes. “How has operation look-after-Burkie been punted to me again?” he asks, more curious than annoyed.

Nick shrugs. “We tell him things, it sounds like an order. You’re his own age.”

Tom raises his eyebrows. “You realize you just willingly admitted that you’re an old man.”

Nick’s mouth twitches. “Look after your step-brother, Willy,” is all he says. He dons a pair of mirrored sunglasses. On anyone else they would look super douchey, but Nick kind of pulls them off. Not that Tom would ever tell him so. “Time for family and beach. Don’t try to reach me. I won’t text back.”

"Wear sunscreen, Goldilocks,” calls Tom after him, always pleased when he can combine a diss and sage life advice into one chirp.

 

*

 

Lying on a too-small towel and baking underneath the afternoon sun, Tom almost forgets Nick’s request. Sue him for getting distracted. He’s got soft sand between his toes, a cold drink in his hand, and his awesome girlfriend sunning herself one towel over. Life is good. Still, he fishes his phone from the pocket of his swim shorts and pulls up Andre’s number.

 _You doing ok bro_ he texts, watching as three dots appear at the bottom of the screen.

 _Ya_ texts Andre. _Playing lots of golf. Got in wrong car ysterday. Funny story!!_

 _Don’t tell backy_ texts Tom after Andre sends him the link to NHL.com. _Hows golf w one hand?_

 _Hard_ texts Andre. _But everyone is so nice to me_.

Tom can see it. Andre seems to bring out the most dormant nurturing instincts in people. Even their team captain, for all he can sometimes act like an overgrown kid, has taken it upon himself to be Andre’s protective guardian. Add an injury into the mix and he’s impressed people aren’t carting Andre around with a giant sign reading _precious cargo_ or something.

 _Nice bro_ he sends. _Keep healing that hand_.

That’s probably enough responsibility for one day, so Tom tucks his phone away and focuses on his tan. He catches enough flack for being the resident pretty boy. If he comes back to D.C. lobster red the guys will never let him hear the end of it.

 

*

 

Tom does end up burning his entire back on their last day off, which sucks. He can barely keep still on the flight home, his skin itchy and hot against the coarse fabric of his too-small airplane seat. Fortunately he is spared the indignity of any chirping because all of his teammates look about ten times worse. Turns out sticking a bunch of pasty white dudes under full sun for a week isn’t such a brilliant idea. Who would have thought?

The team only gets one skate in before they have to face Detroit on the road. Fucking condensed schedule. It’s a rude wakeup call for sure, after so many days off, and it takes everyone a few shifts to find their lungs and legs again. Timing takes longer. Even Nick’s passes don’t go tape-to-tape. He looks as dead-eyed as ever, but Tom can tell it bugs him.

The good news is that Andre has been given permission to start skating. Although there is no substitute for playing in real NHL games, coming back from IR is way easier when you’re allowed to keep up with the on-ice conditioning part. Andre skates hard without a stick, sprinting lap after lap until he has to take a knee and gulp down air. Still he shows no sign of frustration, all smiles as he eventually troops back inside the dressing room. Tom watches him struggle to unlace his skates for a solid thirty seconds before he catches Nick giving him a significant look from across the room.

“Here,” he says, walking over and kneeling in front of Andre’s stall. “Let me give you a hand, Burkie.”

“I can --” begins Andre, inhaling sharply through his nose when his injured hand bumps against the hard top of his skate. “Okay.”

Tom feels like a real hockey dad, tugging the laces free and carefully sliding the skate off Andre’s foot. He taps Andre’s left skate to get him to move it in between Tom’s thighs. “You able to cook at all like this?” he asks, freeing Andre’s damp sock. Andre looks as fit as ever, sweaty and spent after a tough workout, but Tom knows he still loses weight easy if he doesn’t regularly ingest enough protein. It doesn’t hurt to check in. Tom is no great cook by any stretch of the imagination, but he is the one who taught Andre the difference between chicken breasts and thighs. There are degrees of helplessness at play here.

“Eh,” says Andre. “Not really. But I’ve been ordering good. Lots of meat and pasta, you know. Sometimes broccoli. I miss smoothies.”

“Come over when we get back from New York,” decides Tom. “I’ll make you a fucking awesome smoothie.” Andre won’t travel with the team, which means he has to watch them shake off the rust from the confines of his couch. Tom knows firsthand how frustrating it can be to watch your teammates struggle, how helpless you feel when you can’t be there in the trenches with them. It’s honestly the least he can do to make sure Andre’s well-fed. Wiping sweat off his upper lip, Tom almost misses the entirely lame thumbs up Nick sends his way. Fucking nosy alternate captains who take their job too seriously.

They lose their matinee in Detroit and in New York for good measure, because the bye week curse is real and everyone knows it. However, their play in the second two periods against the Rangers is encouraging. Combine that with their enviable position in the standings and no one can be too down about the final result. The only thing to do when they return to D.C. is rest up and get focused for a desperate Philadelphia team that always plays with a good deal of snarl.

“What the fuck was that?” asks Andre cheerfully, opening the door of his apartment for Tom. Tom has no fewer than 12 essential smoothie ingredients cradled in his arms, which makes shrugging a challenge, but he thinks he manages alright as he pushes his way inside. 

“Apparently we forgot how to hockey,” he says, dumping everything on Andre’s kitchen counter. “At least we didn’t get completely slaughtered. Coulda used you out there, Burk.” 

Andre pads over with a sigh. “I hate it,” he says, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “I feel so… useless. No help, y’know?”  

Tom knows. Nothing like a significant restriction to remind you how conditional your help can be. “Hey,” he says, “you’ll be back on the bench in no time. Until then you just gotta keep doing what you’re doing -- rest and skate.”

“And eat,” grins Andre, watching Tom pull out his cutting board. He knows where the knife drawer is too. “You take good care of me.”

“Someone’s gotta,” mutters Tom, feeling awkward about it, as he starts to slice the strawberries. He points the knife at Andre’s chest. “If you lose another five pounds Coach won’t be too happy.”

“ _Oh, I’m Willy. I’m so big and strong_ ,” mocks Andre, walking over to give Tom a playful shove. “ _My life’s so hard. I don’t fit in car backseat. I eat raw eggs and steak for breakfast_.”

Tom grins and shoves Andre back, careful to steer clear of his hand. They used to play-fight from time to time, wrestling like littermates on the floor of their old place while Mike laughed at them, sometimes offering a critique on their form. Tom’s stomach still tightens when he thinks about Mike for too long. Call him sentimental if you want, Tom doesn’t care. _I want to lift the cup with you,_  Mike confided to him last season. _You and me, Grumpy. I really think this is our year_. Obviously life had other plans for them. Now last season feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.  

“You’re asking for trouble, pal,” he says, dropping his knife to cuff the side of Andre’s head with his hand. “Don’t think I won’t take you down, injury or no injury.”

“I could take you,” says Andre like he always does, smiling his best shit-eating grin. He takes a step back anyway. Smart boy.  

Tom remembers the first time Andre approached him, politely asking Tom to teach him how to defend himself on the ice, how to hold his own in a fight. It sort of spiraled from there. The vets think they’re ridiculous, always buzzing with restless energy even after a long practice or punishing game. In truth, Tom also likes to take it easy. Easier than Andre anyway, who always seems to need a buddy or three to keep him entertained.

“No ice cream?” asks Andre, watching attentively as Tom attempts to cram another handful of frozen berries into the top of the blender. 

Tom gives him an unimpressed look and slaps on the lid. “That would be what they call a milkshake.”

“So good though,” says Andre with a smile, fiddling with the dirty knife. Tom hopes he doesn’t slice open his palm. “This is good too,” he amends, speaking over the blender's deafening roar. The contents turns an intriguing shade of blue-purple.

Tom snorts. “I aim to please,” he says, pouring them each a generous serving. “To your speedy recovery.”

They clink glasses before taking a sip. Andre hums. “Tasty,” he says. He pauses. “But better with ice cream.”

Tom pushes the brim of Andre's hat down over his eyes.

 

*

 

Nick corners Tom in the hallway of the team’s hotel in Philadelphia, face expectant.

“Jesus, Nicky,” yelps Tom, en route to the sauna, tugging his earbuds free. “I didn’t see you there.”

Nick doesn’t appear repentant. “How is Burkie?” he asks, crossing his arms. “Better?”

“Sure,” shrugs Tom. “He wants to be playing, of course, but here we are.” 

Nick just looks at him like he has yet to say the right thing. He’s very imposing, Tom thinks, despite not having Tom's height. That and Nick’s comfort with awkward silence make him a formidable negotiator. Best poker face on the team, probably.

“I made him a smoothie,” adds Tom, voice lilting up at the end.

Nick smiles. “Good,” he says cryptically, like this entire conversation isn’t weird as hell. “Keep it up.”

He walks off, leaving Tom to shuffle towards the elevator in his too-small hotel slippers and terry robe, lost in his thoughts.

 

*

 

They get a 4-1 win against the guys in orange, finally shaking off their post-bye funk. Tom raises hell on the ice and makes a few new friends in the process. The Flyers always play them hard. Back in D.C., Tom and Andre celebrate with a beer each and put on _Crazy Stupid Love_. Mostly they just talk, half paying attention to the storyline on the screen until they get to the part where Ryan Gosling promises that he can lift Emma Stone.

“Have you ever done that move?” asks Andre with a hiccup, because he’s a total lightweight no matter how much he tries to deny it.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Not yet,” he says. “Probably could though. Have you?”

Andre shakes his head. “I think I’d drop her.”

Tom laughs. “Probably.” They lapse into companionable silence, and Tom starts to fall asleep.

Somewhere between their second and third beer Andre looks at him. “Wanna try it?” 

“Try what?” asks Tom dumbly, before he remembers. “Wait. With _you_?” he clarifies. “I’m not sure how that’d work.”

Andre nods seriously. “Because you’re not strong enough,” he says. “I get it.”

Tom glares. “No. Because Emma Stone is small and you’re 6’3” and built like a dense noodle.”

“Whatever makes you feel good,” says Andre blithely. He uses his left hand to take another sip of his beer and spills a couple drops on his shirt. “Shit.”

“Lightweight,” laughs Tom.

“Coward,” sniffs Andre, licking at the wet patch like that’s not incredibly stupid. 

“Fuck it,” says Tom, dropping his bottle on the coffee table and rising to his feet. He stretches his arms over his head. “Let’s do this.” 

Andre looks up at him in confusion, t-shirt in his mouth. “D’ wha?” he manages around the fabric.

“The dirty dancing lift, you dummy,” says Tom. “Hit me with your best shot. What could go wrong?” 

Andre squints at him. “Okay.”

They move Tom’s table out of the way first, creating a reasonable amount of runway. Let no one say that they don’t think these logistical things through. Tom doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know that a running start should do the trick.

“If I injure you,” says Andre from across the room, stretching his legs, “what will we tell the team?”

“Anything but the truth,” calls back Tom. “Well, I’m waiting. Who’s afraid now?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Andre cracks his neck. “Remember. You drop me on my head, they trade you to Colorado.” 

Tom barks a laugh. “Probably,” he says. “Good thing I won’t drop you.”

Andre takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing to sprint up the ice, and starts to run directly at Tom. Tom realizes this will not work about half a second before Andre slams into his outstretched arms, and by then it’s too late to do anything but try to keep them both from killing themselves. To his credit and commendable upper body strength, Tom gets Andre almost fully over his head before they both go crashing to the floor, landing in an embarrassed heap of tangled limbs. Tom’s ass is going to be bruised, which will suck, but right now all he cares about is discerning whether they’ve just injured Andre more than he was before. At least Tom was able to cushion Andre’s fall with his own body. He feels like he was just boarded.

“Ow,” says Andre, still lying all heavy and sweaty on top of him, one thigh wedged between Tom’s own. “You are not soft enough.”

Tom glares. He’s pretty sure if anyone should be hurting right now it’s the guy with a 200 pound teammate crushing his intestines. “Neither are you,” he complains, digging his hand into Andre’s ribs until he squirms away. They start wrestling then, even though it’s not fair since Andre only has one good hand, and Tom easily rolls them over. “What a stupid idea,” he mutters, fingers wrapped around Andre’s forearm to keep it from jostling too much as he pins Andre to the ground. “Are you okay? I hate you so much.”

“I’m fine. And this was your stupid idea,” grumbles Andre, trying and failing to extricate himself from Tom’s grip. 

“Okay good. I would feel awful if -- _my_ idea?” yelps Tom, pressing him more firmly down. “This was _your_ idea, you idiot.”

They start grappling again, and Andre fights dirty by shoving his gross fingers in Tom’s face. He’s finally about to make Andre cry _Uncle_ , the kid is admittedly feisty, when Andre goes dead still beneath him and inhales sharply.

“What’s wrong?” asks Tom, instantly worried. He thinks he’s accidentally hurt Andre and starts to ease off until he feels what is unmistakably Andre’s hard dick poking his stomach. _Oh_. Looking back, Tom doesn’t know what makes him say it. Maybe it’s the beer, or the playful wrestling, or the look of pure humiliation on Andre’s flushed face.

“It’s okay, bro,” Tom says quickly, even though this is definitely not the kind of conversation you should have when you’re lying on top of your buddy and he’s sporting a half-chub. Tom rolls his hips. Make that a full-chub. “It must suck, with your hand out of commission and everything. Have you been able to,” he makes the universal sign for jerking off, “at all?”

Andre looks up at him warily, his eyebrows pinched with the same acute confusion Tom feels himself. He licks his lips. “Yeah,” Andre says, voice scratchy. He shifts against the weight of Tom’s body experimentally, and his eyelids flutter when Tom doesn’t give him an inch. “But it’s not as good.”  

Tom nods. “That must be frustrating,” he says, full of earnest sympathy. Tom is a good listener. 

“It is,” agrees Andre. He looks interested but also a little bit scared, like he thinks Tom is secretly disgusted by him but isn’t showing it yet, and Tom’s heart seizes at the thought. He remembers what Nick said to him, all that stuff about helping Andre when he needs looking after. Would this qualify?

“I can,” he begins huskily, before he even knows how he wants to put this. Until now they could still choose to play this off as a weird drunken joke. They could go to sleep in their own beds, avoid eye contact for a few days, and everything would return to normal. Some lines cannot be uncrossed, just like some dicks cannot be unsucked. “I could give you a hand with that,” he ends up saying, which sounds like a line from a really bad porno. “If you want it.” Tom should probably not be allowed to speak words ever.

He watches Andre’s face change, flickering from confused to wanting to something almost vulnerable. “You don’t have to,” is what he says, offering Tom an easy out. But _he_ wants it, Tom can tell, and Tom has never been the type of guy to take the easy way out anyway. Why skate away when you can get fifteen fresh stitches and five for fighting? Heck, maybe throw in a game misconduct for good measure.

“I know,” he says. “But I want to.”

That must do the trick, because Andre bites his lip and gives him a mischievous smirk. “Well,” he says magnanimously, “if you really _want_ to.” He raises his eyebrows like a challenge.

“Shut up,” says Tom, and he kisses Andre before he can respond. They make out on the floor like that for a few minutes, Andre stretching his neck to tug at Tom’s bottom lip, until Tom gets worried that Andre will lose too much blood flow to his hands and makes them move back to the couch. It should feel weird, Tom thinks, doing these things with your teammate. But it really doesn’t. When you’re already this close, literally trained to read each other’s nonverbal cues, everything feels almost too easy.    

Andre is definitely the more worked up of the two of them, poor guy, and the little sounds he makes when Tom starts to kiss his throat grow more and more frustrated as Tom works his way towards the collar of Andre’s shirt. Tom just laughs against his warm skin, he’s being kind of mean, and Andre huffs imperiously. He uses his uninjured hand to grab Tom’s own and pushes it against the bulge in his sweats.

“Yeah?” breathes Tom, feeling the weight of Andre’s cock as he palms it through the fleecy material. Andre’s chest hitches and he groans. Tom licks his neck once, a broad stripe under his chin, as payback for Andre shoving his fingers in Tom’s mouth earlier. Then, in one fluid motion, he slides to the floor, landing with a thump on his knees.

“Oh,” says Andre, getting the picture. He spreads his thighs wider, allowing Tom to shuffle in between and put his big hands on the waistband of Andre’s pants. “I thought this was -- uh -- just a hand.” He watches Tom tug his sweats down, lifting his hips obligingly to help get them past the curve of his ass. 

Tom looks up at him, eyebrow raised. “Are you complaining?” Andre’s not wearing underwear, and Tom gives his dick an appreciative once over. Andre is freshly showered, nicely groomed, and bigger than most. The guys have had their fair share of dick measuring competitions, okay, although Nate is adamant that it isn’t fair and accurate unless they measure while fully erect, and somehow only that causes the boys to get squirrelly about the whole thing. Weirdos. Tom knows he has the kind of soft mouth that makes people think about giving and getting head. His girlfriend says so, has watched him suck cock on more than one occasion with dark eyes. God bless their arrangement.  

“No,” Andre stutters, pulse quickening when Tom reaches for his dick and gives it a measured squeeze.

Tom grins like an asshole. “Didn’t think so,” he says, guiding Andre’s dick into his open mouth. It makes him feel all tingly good, that he can do something nice like this for Andre. Maybe the healing powers of his blowjob will even get him back on the ice faster. Tom sighs through his nose and starts to find his rhythm, one hand twisting around the base while the other rests on the jut of Andre’s hip, right where his leg and groin meet.

“God,” says Andre, winding his fingers firmly through Tom’s hair. The next words tumbling out of his mouth are in Swedish, as if he’s lost the ability to translate. It’s flattering, and Tom tries and fails not to preen. Like any true professional, he makes plenty of eye contact, feeling more sexy than ashamed when saliva drips off his lips and soaks into his pants.

He pulls off for a moment, spreading the wetness down Andre’s shaft. “How d’you feel?” he asks, voice a pleasantly hoarse rumble. He continues to stroke Andre, feeling his leg muscles twitch beneath his broad palm. 

“So good,” moans Andre, throwing his head back. His eyes fall shut, and his hand flops uselessly before he finds Tom’s head, tugs lightly at his hair. Tom feels his dick jump at the sudden pain. “Keep going, c’mon.” 

“Be patient,” says Tom, but he dutifully takes Andre back into his mouth anyway, pinning his hips to the couch when he tries to buck into the wet heat. Andre is pretty quiet, mumbling nonsense under his breath, but Tom can tell that he’s getting close. He moves his left hand up, feeling along the flat planes of Andre’s stomach, and takes his cock deeper into his mouth. _That’s it. Good boy_. Tom hollows his cheeks and quickens their pace, willing himself not to sputter and choke when he goes a little too far down. He’s no good at deepthroating or anything like that, but it’s not for lack of trying. Instead he inhales through his nose, feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“Fuck,” swears Andre. He tries to tangle his injured hand in Tom’s hair and whines when Tom presses it against his bare thigh. “I’m going to…”

“Yeah,” says Tom, all slow and gravelly. “Do it, c’mon.” Andre whimpers and starts to come before Tom’s got his mouth fully back around his dick, and it dribbles pornographically down his chin. Somehow he manages to swallow most of it.  

“Guh,” says Andre, flopping back against the couch with a dazed look on his face. If he did this on the ice, the trainers might suspect a concussion. _I did that_ , thinks Tom with pride. Not all heroes wear capes.

“Y’gonna leave me hanging, Burkie?” he asks, prodding at Andre’s navel and smiling when he tries to squirm away from the touch. “That’s not cool.” He’s done a good job of ignoring his own needs until now, but Tom’s dick is pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants.  

“Come up here then,” says Andre, twisting his body so he’s lying more horizontally on the couch. He pats his legs in invitation, and it makes Tom feel a bit like a dog whose owner has just said _up_. He goes anyway, bracing himself above Andre to kiss him senseless all over again, tugging at his t-shirt until he’s fully naked and pliable beneath the feverish weight of Tom’s body. Pretty soon they’re both panting and Tom’s got his sweats pulled down just far enough to free his cock, his come splattering all over Andre’s bare stomach.

“Gross,” says Andre, wrinkling his nose when Tom uses his shirt to mop up the jizz. “I like that shirt, asshole.” 

“ _You_ came in my mouth, bro,” says Tom, succinctly ending that argument.

Andre finds his sweats and they wiggle and grumble until they’ve re-situated themselves into equally comfortable positions, Tom with his arm thrown casually across Andre’s shoulders. Apparently they’re actually going to finish the movie now. “How’s the hand?” he asks, watching the way Andre has it cradled against his chest.

“Fine,” says Andre. “That probably was not best for it, but it’s okay.” They share a long look, and Tom feels giddy, helpless laughter bubbling up inside him.

“Fuck,” he says, nearly wheezing. “I can’t believe you tried to make me lift your heavy ass.”  

“I am very strong,” agrees Andre. “All muscle, me. Unlike you.” He gives Tom’s body a critical glance. “Weakling. But I like you anyway.”

“It’s like you _want_ me to take you down,” complains Tom, and he gently tackles Andre back to the floor. He is, of course, mindful of his hand.

They don't finish the movie.

 

*

 

“Burkie looks much better,” says Nick, as if he’s intentionally trying to ruin their post-practice lunch. Tom knew there must be a catch when he threw out the ever-so-casual invitation. Deceptive Swedish bastard.

“Yup,” he agrees, spearing a piece of sautéed spinach with his too-small salad fork. “He’ll be back in no time.”

“You have been taking good care of him,” continues Nick, sounding weirdly smug about it.

Tom tries and fails not to think about what they did before practice this morning, the way Andre moaned his name like it was something sacred. Or profane. His feels his ears burn. “Lots of smoothies and stuff, I guess,” he says lamely, clearing his throat.

Nick smiles at him. “Stick with it. I think it will be good for both of you,” he says, and Tom is no longer sure what they are even talking about.

“True. My mom did recently send me an article about the health benefits of blueberries,” he says uncertainly. Nick just looks at him like he’s the stupidest person on earth, which is unnerving on several levels, mostly because that’s the look he usually reserves for Alex. Tom is so embarrassed he ends up excusing himself under the pretense of going to the bathroom.

 _I think backy just gave us his blessing_ texts Tom. He spends a few seconds fixing his hair in the mirror before Andre texts back.

_??????_

Tom laughs. _I know_ he sends. _But at least he approves_.

Tom returns to their table to find no sign of Nick. He’s slightly pissed off about it until the waiter says that their bill has already been paid. “He also said to give you this,” says the waiter, handing Tom both his own and Nick’s leftovers, carefully wrapped up in to-go containers. Tom is just pulling out his wallet to leave his own separate tip, because he's a good boy, when his phone buzzes.

 _Yeah is good_ , says Andre. _If he didn’t think you are ok i wd dump you right away_.

 _Excuse me_ , texts Tom furiously. _It is you he thinks is good enough for me_. He just suppresses the instinct to add _i am his oldest son_. That might make things weird.  

 _You wish ;)))))))))_  

 _I will end you_  sends Tom, because he knows Andre is right but he can’t let him win.

 _:OOOOO but i am injured_  

 _U are an asshole mainly_  he texts back, wondering what went so wrong in his upbringing that this is their version of acceptable foreplay.

_Are you coming over or not?_

Tom sighs. He looks at the take-out containers sitting on their table. Andre could use a serving or two of grilled chicken, probably. _Be there in 15_ he types.

 _:)_ sends Andre. _Bring ice cream_.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written Caps fic in about seven years. For context, the last one I wrote was posted on Livejournal. 
> 
> I was doing so well. 
> 
> [tumblr](http://playincards.tumblr.com/)


End file.
